


through all my years

by anstaar



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aral/Ges, Aral/Nina, Background Relationships, Brotherhood, Dynastic Politics, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Gen, Grief, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Olivia Vorkosigan survived, Olivia/Ezar, Olivia/Piotr, POV Multiple, Sister-Sister Relationship, Time Period: Reign of Ezar Vorbarra, aftermath of the death of loved ones, welcome to the space age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29372253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anstaar/pseuds/anstaar
Summary: Count Vorkosigan is getting married. As Count Piotr Vorkosigan’s only surviving child and the eldest living son of the Empress, it’s the social event of the season. And not one most of the Imperial family is looking forward to.
Comments: 32
Kudos: 12





	1. prologue: the young prince

**Author's Note:**

> another 'what if someone's mother lived' AU, picking up around 16 years after the divergent point. The family dynamics only get messier from here.

Count Vorkosigan is getting married. As Count Piotr Vorkosigan’s only surviving child and the eldest living son of the Empress, it’s the social event of the season. Liv argues with her sister, worries about her sons and tries to resist shouting at her husband. Serg sulks and Grisha tries to make people happy. 

Tension has settled on the imperial household like autumn mist. Insubstantial yet all pervasive. Or maybe some kind of airborne poison, almost undetectable without experience and with few cures. Grisha had felt it even through the exhaustion of travel. Now, he pushes at his breakfast, trying his best not to wish he were still camping on the foothills of the Black Escarpment. 

The trip had been just as fun as Grisha had hoped. Mikas had given them a stern lecture in the flyer about how it was a learning opportunity, not a holiday, but Mikas is his favorite tutor for a reason. ‘Practical learning opportunities’ mean getting to set up his own tent and preparing dinner and listening to Mikas enthusiastic lectures on geology and botany and whatever else had his interest that day while they hiked. That far from the capitol, Leon and Morgan had been willing to smile a few times. Even Serg had been mostly cheerful. He’d seemed more like his old self again than he had in ages. Still, by the end, he’d been looking forward to coming home.

Grisha _is_ happy to be home. It’s not not good just because it’s tense. Before they’d left, his father had ruffled his hair and said that sleeping in tents was a good way to appreciate a nice bed. And he’d know, because before he was the Emperor, which is very important, father fought against the Cetagandan invaders and sometimes had to sleep in caves for months and months. It was nice to be back in his bed and then wake up in his room with all his stuff, knowing Leon’s standing outside the door watching the familiar servants get everything ready for the day to come. And even better to know that when he went downstairs and out to the garden, he’d find his mother sitting at the table they eat breakfast in on nice days. 

It’s just that, maybe, Grisha had hoped that it would feel a little more peaceful. Things had been good when they’d left. He’s certain – almost certain – that they’d been good. There’s always stuff. Whatever Serg likes to say, Grisha isn’t a _baby_. He knows that being an Emperor is very hard. He’s seen his mother-the-Empress for years and years and people say that being Emperor is even more work, even though when he was little he’d had a hard time imagining that. He knows why Leon is at his door. People never believe him, but he’s sure he remembers when the car had been attacked and Captain Negri had saved him. 

Grisha can list all the Counts, and most of their heirs, and their districts. He knows what the districts are like, well, he knows a lot of important things about them. He knows all the ranks and their collar tabs and the right form of address. He knows about Cetaganda and Komarr and has been in spaceships. He knows about Mad Emperor Yuri and isn’t scared at all even though Grandpa yelled at Padma about giving him nightmares and Grampa never yells. He knows that his family is unusual. Mikas says he’s a good student and Mikas wouldn’t lie about that to anyone, not even the Emperor. He’s not stupid. 

It’s not stupid to think that things had been okay. The Emperor had passed another important decree, and father had been able to come to dinner more regularly again. Which makes mother happy. Father had taken Serg out riding, even though Serg had spent ages insisting he wouldn’t make the time and being in a bad mood, which had seemed a little like a reason he shouldn’t get to go to Grisha after a third ruined breakfast, but he didn’t really mean it and was glad that he had. Not just because Serg had lived up to his promise of helping put together Grisha’s new model spaceship without saying it was silly. Aunt Sonia had visited without fighting with mother, so he didn’t have to feel bad about liking her present. 

Now, just weeks later, the mood at the table is black. Grisha had known that Serg’s good temper wasn’t going to last. He’d been snappish enough when they were flying home to break any hope of that. But they’re all too used to that for it to explain mother’s distraction. Grisha breaks his bread into smaller pieces. He’d suspected she wasn’t totally happy about them being gone for so long. He hadn’t wanted to think about it, because he’d been looking forward to the trip, but she hadn’t added any stories to go with father’s. Of course, she has a lot more chances to tell stories so usually encourages him to go instead so Grisha had let himself ignore it. 

Grisha knows his mother isn’t always happy. Most people can’t tell because she’s very good at pretending. Being Empress means being good at pretending, because a lot of the Counts are really very boring but she has to listen to them and their wives and not saying anything about them being boring or rude or stupid. But he sees how she gets, sometimes. Being Empress also means having lots of people around but not really being able to have friends like other people can. 

Grisha doesn’t have a lot of friends, either. Some of the children who come to court a lot are okay, but most of them pay more attention to Serg, even though he doesn’t like it. Serg used to be his best friend, but he’d always liked to spend more time alone and these days he doesn’t seem to want to be his friend. There are lots of other people around, plenty of them he likes, but they’re all adults. Sometimes he gets lonely, but he pretends not to be. He thinks mother is maybe a little the same way, even if it’s different for adults. He’d asked her if she was sad a few times, but she always just smiled and said that she could never be said when she had him to cheer her up. She also says it’s good for him to go off on trips, but this was the longest trip yet and she had been left behind with people who aren’t very good at cheering up anyone. 

Serg hits him in the head with a piece of bread, breaking Grisha out of his worries. “Stop playing with your food, ninny. Mother’s just worried about _Count Vorkosigan’s_ marriage.” 

“We don’t throw food at the table,” mother says, giving Serg the stern look he likes to pretend doesn’t bother him. “And don’t call your brother names. Is that the behavior of someone ‘too old’ to be forced to have breakfast with his family? Apologize, now.” 

Serg leans back in his chair, smirking. “I’m _so_ sorry. How can I _ever_ make up for such behavior towards my precious baby brother?” 

Grisha lets the familiar argument roll back and forth over his head, as he spreads jam on his bread. This can go for a long time, and it’s usually better if he doesn’t say anything. He has other things to focus on.

Count Vorkosigan is his oldest brother, half-brother. Serg says he can remember when he lived with them, but Grisha had been very young. He’s not mother’s first son, but he was killed a long time ago. Grisha is always careful to light Anatoliy’s incense because he looks nice in the picture, though he doesn’t when Serg is around because he gets upset. In another world he would’ve been Count Vorkosigan and Count Vorkosigan would be Lord Aral. Serg is going to be Count Vorbarra, someday, which seems like a lot but the idea of _him_ being Count Vorbarra instead is awful, even when Serg’s at his very worse. 

It’s strange, thinking of Count Vorkosigan as his brother. He can be very – intimidating, as Padma says. And he’s very old. Not like a brother at all, really. Grisha sometimes practices saying things to him in front of Anatoliy’s picture, but he can never say it when they’re together. Instead, he usually just trails along behind, Aral probably thinks he’s dumb. 

But Grisha knows that Count Vorkosigan was supposed to marry Lady Nina Vorrutyer years ago, to satisfy Count Vorrutyer’s bloody honor. But mother thought that they were too young, and there was no reason to rush. Which seems sensible to Grisha. Still, they are older now. 

“Is Aral getting married?” Grisha asks, carefully inserting himself into a pause in the conversation. 

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s keeping me a quite busy. It’ll be nice to know he won’t be going back to a bachelor’s apartment at the end of all the fuss.” Mother smiles. Grisha smiles back, trying to look enthusiastic. 

Serg was right, this was the source of tension. Grisha can’t help but think it’s about more than organizing wedding festivities.


	2. the empress

Piotr can move with shocking silence for a man whose presence can draw the attention of a whole room. Not surprising, perhaps, as both were born from the same years of experience in a war that often relied on secrecy and sabotage. Years of close quarters, too. Vorkosigan House, even on the rare occasions when it has a full complement of servants, armsmen and family members can’t be called crowded, but on late nights Piotr still is almost ghostlike. No one is foolish enough to announce him, but Liv always knows when he has entered the room and that’s enough. 

Liv had hoped that he would arrive home early enough to join them for dinner, but she understands the duty that drives him. She was glad to have him home for the next few days, and that residence in the city, no matter the other downsides, means at least sharing the night with him. 

“How are the children?” He asked, sitting down on the bed beside her as he worked to remove his boots. 

“Of an age to start taking offense at being called that.” 

Piotr scoffed slightly but couldn’t fully hide the fond smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Are you suggesting I call them men, my lady?”

“Not unless you want to earn a stern lecture.” He raised his eyebrows and she swatted him gently. “None of that, you’re already on thin ice.” 

He groaned. Few were close enough to Count Vorkosigan to hear him utter such a thing. “This is about that party.”

“It’s your nephew’s first birthday,” Liv said, trying to sound stern. 

“Yes, I thought my absence might serve as a fitting present. Perhaps I could write up a card to make it clear.” 

She sat up, glaring at him. “Don’t you dare.”

“You know your family’s opinion of me even better than I do,” he said.

“Yes, I do. And I have no intention sitting through a round of ‘concerned’ comments about your absence when I know you’d be lazing about in your study looking at pictures of horses.”

“You love the horses.” After their years together, he didn’t need words to understand her look. “As you love your sister. The horses probably a little less, though I’ve never heard you ranting after we’ve made a trip to the stables…” 

Liv laughed, pulling him down with her. “You’re terrible, Piotr.” 

“Ah, now you sound like your sister.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Are you looking for resemblances to my sister?”

Piotr chuckled but, as was fitting for a man known for being able to use his brain, chose not to respond with words. 

All these years later, Liv still remembers the sound of his laugh. What he had felt like in her arms. The Piotr Vorkosigan so few people had had a chance to see when Count Vorkosigan had stood before them. 

Count Vorkosigan had stood before her the day before, just managing to avoid parade rest. Liv contemplates, yet again, locking her son in a dungeon for a few weeks until he manages to regain some sense. No jury of mothers would vote to convict. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be brought to the sort of trial her mother had used to tell them about. The trouble with having the power of imprisonment is that it ruins daydreams with minutia of how the politics of the Empress setting herself obviously against Count Vorkosigan’s choices would appear to a body of men already fretting over Ezar’s policies. 

Even as she has to conceal her simmering anger behind a serene smile, Liv can admit that there’s a deft hand in play somewhere. Fresh from that damned mutiny, though not so fresh as not to be carefully attired, Aral had come in front of the court as if he simply wished to talk to his mother about his desire to marry. A flair for showmanship, there. Before, Liv had been able to suggest engagement over marriage, taking into account their ages and the responsibilities of the position. Such arguments couldn’t be used for a battle-hardened Count. Not with the current struggle with the Council of Counts. Liv had embraced him with a smile, speaking of her joy and jokingly demanding the role of organizer of ceremonies. 

Liv doesn’t think Aral’s the one moving the pieces. She can’t say for certain, and that hurts as much as the way he’d been stiff and unmoving as she’d held him. He’d been such an earnest child. Such a straightforward youth, for all that had its own problems when his temper would flare up. He’s her son, and she knows him. He’s still her son, he will always be her son, but there are far too many moments when she looks at him and it feels like looking at a stranger. Perhaps because of how infrequently she has a chance to look at him. 

Piotr had proposed to her as close to Vorkosigan Vashnoi as it was safe to approach even with pills. Liv had shared few of the details with anyone else. Not because she cared about their opinion on the romance of it, but because it’s deeply personal. She knows what her father thinks, but Piotr had never hidden his wounds from her. Not those from what he did in the war. Not the irradiated center where family and history had been burned away and the land polluted for generations by the Cetagandans’ malice. It was a blight he’d bear forever, but he’d wanted to grow something new, with her. 

Piotr’s death, _Tolya’s_ death, is another wound that had to be born. It can’t heal but just has to be quartered off like the nuclear wastes around Vashnoi. It’s how she survived. It’s how Aral survived. But there are times she fears that in building protective walls around the wound, she and Aral had ended up building walls between each other that can’t be taken down. The dead loom so large that shouting to be heard among the crowd was exhausting. 

Liv had proposed to Ezar, her ears still ringing faintly and her last surviving child hopefully catching a few minutes of sleep that weren’t full of nightmares. They had married for politics, and a shared desire for vengeance that had bound them together well enough in the early years. Since then, she thinks they’ve built something more than that. A mutual respect in their commitment to Barrayar, the work it takes. And the children, of course. First and foremost, the children, the reason it was important to at least have respect. 

Liv’s using her few free moments to watch Serg and Grisha practice fencing. It’s not entirely fair that they have this lesson together. Yerzov had told her, with his usual directness, that Grisha has a natural talent for the sport but he lacks the advantages of his brother’s height and build. That will change, but for now, Serg is driven to work hard so as not to be outshone in technical proficiency but wins actual matches with a frequency that stops him from falling into a black mood and declaring it all pointless. She tells herself that Grisha never looks dispirited by his losses. 

After receiving permission from Yerzov, both boys come over to greet her. Serg briefly but without any petulance, Grisha with a hug she accepts even as she ruefully notes the sweat that has matted his curls to his head. Grisha is probably a little too old to cling to her as much as he does, but she always ignores that thought. He can hold onto a childishness that had been torn from Aral by death and which Serg had moved away from as he’d gained more understanding of his role and responsibilities. And it’s partly just a response to his brother’s recent distance, when they were younger it was always Serg that Grisha had run to first. They’ll work through their troubles and until then she can enjoy having one son that turns to her. 

Liv had never had that sort of relationship with her siblings. She loves her sister, but they’ve never been good at talking to each other. If feels like the gap between their ages had been replaced by the gap Pip should fill. Sonia and Pip had always been so close. Liv, with her husband and children and life, had sometimes distantly regretted she hadn’t had that sort of bond, had been glad that her children were closer. Loss only made the distance greater.

Sonia has also always had a knack for knowing just what to say to drive Liv to the edge. Sonia is close to the son she’d been left with after the death of her husband. Padma is generally even-tempered and far less of a trial to his mother at seventeen than plenty of other boys. A point that Liv doesn’t appreciate Sonia making, especially not with the silent commentary on Aral. Padma’s willingness to spend time with his younger cousins is a boon, and not something that Liv is going to regret even when Sonia comments on their lack of connection with their half-brother. At least even Sonia hadn’t said anything about the wedding. 

Damn Pierre Vorrutyer had never gotten over the ‘insult’ of Liv’s and Ezar’s marriage. Princess Yuli Vorbarra’s delight at being able to vanish into seclusion had not moved him an inch, to no one’s surprise. Liv had, more than once, envisioned family dinners in the Vorrutyer house with Pierre plotting his revenge dramatically at the head of the table, like Lord Tomas in the vids Liv will never admit to watching. 

Whether it’s his legacy or not, Liv feels beset by Vorrutyers. Ezar, made extremely unwise by exhaustion, had once asked if it wasn’t partly jealousy from Aral’s closeness to them. Liv doesn’t like the summers Aral had chosen to spend with his distant cousins over his grandfather, but it’s for how much of a political play it is as much as it’s personal. In the years since the eventual match was first tacitly agreed on, Liv has done her best to cultivate the future Countess Vorkosigan, but that has made her only more wary of the potential political block they represent. 

Liv has already heard plenty about the traditional nature of the wedding. She knows just who it’s supposed to appeal to. The power of the Counts has always relied upon image as well as strength. They’ve been slow to adopt the new means of gathering and distributing messaging, old men holding onto old beliefs of how things should be done. But a new generation is emerging, ones who have learned to use new ways without any thought of the hypocrisy of lending them to their cause. And it will satisfy them deeply to be able to use _her_ son as a face for their ideas.


	3. the countess to be

Nina has her mother’s hairbrush. Just as she has her mother’s combs, solid wooden pieces with intricate carvings that date from the Time of Isolation and were pulled out again once the first mania for galactic items had died down in the face of invasion and, most likely even before that, the realization that they’re a symbol of change. Nina and Ges used to kick each other under the table every time father said ‘tradition’, but she appreciates a hairbrush that doubles as a weapon. Even if it can be hell on her hair. 

There are good memories attached, as well. On good days, when she was younger, Nina’s mother used to come in after the nurse, and then maid, had finished doing the actual brushing for a few last strokes. It had been a ritual suited for both their temperaments. All the fuss and occasional screaming fit at the servants replaced with a perfect picture of familial tranquility. One of the tricks Nina has stored away for her own family. 

“Are you sure you should be doing that? With the wedding so soon?” Ges asks, from where he’s sprawled on the settee, perfectly angled so she can see his expression in the mirror. He manages to inject his drawl with mock concern set at a pitch calculated to drive her mad. 

Nina considers the disadvantages of trying to hit Ges with her hairbrush. The biggest problem is that he’ll always hit back. It had been one thing when they were children tussling in the country. He’d had the advantage of a couple of years, but she’d had a strong kick. It’s highly inappropriate for a lady – a Countess to be – to get into a fist fight with her brother. Which is a trial.

Ges is being rather a trial, altogether. She had hoped that they might be able to joke together about the dramatic fuss that’s being raised up around the wedding, but his mockery has no room for anyone to join him. He delights in driving others into fighting him, but even his punch up with Aral hadn’t broken him out of this mood. Nina would find it far easier to stand if she could kick him a few times. Perhaps it would even be enough to pull him out of this sulk. 

Nina’s always been closest to Ges. She doesn’t have any sisters and even if there wasn’t greater distance in age, Baz has always been too concerned with his dignity to have time for siblings. She loves him, of course, as she loves Ov and Fen. They’re family, of course she loves them. But their recent time gathered together in Vorrutyer House has reminded her why she finds it harder to like them. Baz’s endless pomposity is something she can never escape but she supposes she’d hoped that Ov would’ve grown less of a malicious brat with age, or that Fen would develop any sort of personality now that he’s out of the schoolrooms. She hasn’t seen signs of either. Ges isn’t – can’t be – the friend and confident he’d been when they were children, but at least he has a sense of humor and, most of the time, is quite good company. 

“Sulking is one of your least attractive traits, brother,” she says, keeping her face as controlled as her voice. “We’ll never be able to find a bride for you if you keep that up.” She hasn’t wasted her years at court. 

Ges laughs, anger hidden behind the almost real sounding laughter. “After seeing all this bother, I don’t find myself running towards the bonds of matrimony. I still have years left before surrendering my freedom for a wife’s chains.”

She rolls her eyes. “Must you be such a stereotype of a second son?” 

“Better than a first, third or forth one.” 

She can’t argue with that, even if she refuses to smile in the face of his attitude. Still, there’s a reason she lets him into her quarters even when he’s acting like this. As much as having the whole family together has been grating on her nerves, she doesn’t mind all her female cousins and various aunts can be left to entertain themselves with dreams of arrangements. Baz had announced that their brothers would need looking after and seasoning in the capitol, of course volunteering Ges to be their chaperon. A prospect completely lacking in appeal, while she rather likes discussing wedding dresses. 

Nina can admit that part of her graciousness comes from being rather pleased in general. She can more than understand why women haven chosen to marry early, to escape the guardianship of relatives. Even the worst of her family has gained a certain glow with the knowledge that in a few short weeks she’ll be completely out of their control. A _Countess_ , too, not just a simple lady who might still have to bend to overbearing family. She generally regards the current Countess Vorrutyer with nothing worse than a mixture of slightly pity and distant dislike, but it’s still rather fun to sit with her and speak of anything other than the undercurrent of every word. 

The actual marriage doesn’t worry Nina unduly, either. She’s known Aral for years. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that first summer father had brought the young Count to stay. He had been a stranger then; too thin and too quiet. Nina had been a child, aware of the recently bloody war but hadn’t made the connection. She’d been more interested in taking advantage of her father’s unusually generous mood than thinking about another boring cousin. Father had gotten her a horse, patting her head with the sort of fondness usually reserved for his dogs. She understands the reason for the gift, now, but she’d loved Ares without reservation. She’d come around on Aral, too, after he’d stabbed Ges. She hadn’t understood why he’d apologized for it, but, despite his confusion, it had worked to cement him as part of them. 

Ges and Aral’s bond had been cemented, at least, and she’d had to accept that he would be part of things from then on. She was younger and a girl, and the second part had started to matter more as she grew. She had a different sphere to inhabit while Ges could still run about encouraging Aral to lay down the burden of his title for at least a few moments. Still, she knows him. There are far worse potential husbands, who don’t even carry rank and title to make up for it. She thinks they’ll be able to treat well. Besides, while there are more handsome men, he’s grown a little more into his looks than he had a twenty. Which is one recommendation for waiting a little until marriage. 

“I do hope you’re planning on making up with Aral before the wedding,” she says, starting on her braid. “I know a few fights are traditional, but I believe you’re supposed to wait until after the drinks have been poured.” And this one has been going on for longer than their usual.

Ges pouts, a look she suspects some deluded unfortunate has told him looks attractive instead of making him look like a child. “I said nothing that isn’t true. I’m sure most wives would agree that you’re lucky to be entering a household without a mother-in-law.”

She scoffs, to show what she thinks of his ‘defense’ and the idea that he knows anything about what wives would say. “You can be too much.” Ges enjoys provoking reactions too much, so it’s probably good when he overreaches and has to face the consequences. But not when it gets in her way. A fool could guess that it might be a sensitive topic. Nina is sure that Ges knows better than her how hurt and resentful Aral had been about the former Countess Vorkosigan firmly distancing herself from the name and role. He can be unfortunately emotional. “Is that anyway to act with your soon to be brother?”

Ges scoffs, mimicking her, as he slouches down further. “I find myself with an overabundance of brothers. That seems the perfect way to act.”

“I don’t care what it seems to you, make a truce or face my wrath.” 

A joke over truth. The only truth they can have, most days. Nina had thought that Ges took a perverse pleasure in all the lies, but his increasing glowers over the last month has proved that perhaps it’s a taste he can find he has too much of. Or perhaps its Aral’s obviousness driving him. 

Nina can admit that she’s wondered herself whether Aral really thinks nothing of their so light, always joking ‘arguments’ about a husband’s duties vs the bond of men’s business that a woman can never fully understand. He had always been rather confused by their fights as children, so maybe just that he’s long past started tuning out their sibling bickering. It can be slightly frustrating not to be sure of his mind. A man with depths is all very well, but Nina still remembers the sudden shock of the sand falling out from under her feet as she’d paddled in the ocean, a tide pulling her away. Ges had grabbed her then. Carrying her back to shore with none of the scolding about going to far that she would’ve gotten from anyone else. 

Now, he sighs, full of drama denied a state. “If it’s my sister’s demand, for her wedding, I can do nothing else.” He stands, walking over so he can rest his hand on her shoulder. “I promise, nothing but peace and prosperity.” 

Their reflections in the mirror smile back at them.


End file.
